About this Book

Inside the door of the building was an iron gate, and in order
to be buzzed through he was asked to identify himself. The voicea womansspoke
to him first in Spanish and then in an accented but carefully enunciated
English. He hesitated, surprisingly reluctant to reveal his name. He identified
himself as the father of a student.

There was a doubtful pause, followed by a brief buzz, just
enough to let him enter. Two students, both girls, passed him on the stairs. One
was heavyset and blond, and the other had frizzy black curls. The curly-haired
one looked East Coast; her companion Midwest and corn-fed. They had book bags,
and he assumed they were going to class. The first said to the second, "Im
like, Tell me youre a torero and Ill scream." The second, trailing
heavily along, said, "Thats so Spanish!"

He came to a door with a bronze plaque. Centro de Estudios
Norteamericanos.

In the directors office he discovered the woman who had buzzed
him through. "Buenos dias," she greeted him with what he could hear was
operational cheer. He was struck by her beauty, above all by the warmth in her
eyes, which seemed so at odds with the falsity in her voice that he went on
guard. The warmth was such that he might have stepped into a greenhouse that
housed this single extraordinary bloom. He reminded himself: she was a
functionary, assistant to the person he had come to see.

Yes, the director was in. Did he have an appointment?

She knew he didnt. Amazingshe could speak these rehearsed
phrases and look at him that way.

From almost three years earlier he remembered a directors name.
He said, "Is Madeline Pratt still the director of the center?"

If Madeline Pratt was the director, he knew her as an American
in permanent residence here, hired by a consortium of choice American
universities. He had had no contact with her.

"Si, senor," her assistant said.

"I want to see her," he said with a cool directness. "I have
come a long way."

"And you are . . . ?"

"The father of a student."

"Please, could I have a name?"

At that moment a door to his right opened, and a woman stood
there with considerably less aplomb than her assistant, also requesting a name.

There was a brittleness about her, an upright, gray-lined
brittleness. Her hair was cut short, the dulled color of cornhusks, and it was
shot through with gray. She wore a loose-fitting campesino blouse with a
matching skirt, but her sweater gave her away. It was a mix of fall colors, even
though the month was May and the day was heating up as they stood there. The
sleeves were pulled up to the elbow, exposing sinewy wrists. She wore two
copper-colored bracelets. The earrings were made of bronze, short dangles of an
Aztec design. He thought of Hernando Cortez: with his single-mindedness and
handful of soldiers, horses and dogs, hed burned his boats and given the world
these earrings. He looked Madeline Pratt in the eye and said hed like to talk
to her in her office alone.

She had a pleasant, practiced smile she could replace with a
matter-of fact one, which told him the facts would not be to his liking. The
eyes were hazel, more green than brown, and he didnt doubt she could turn their
natural kindness into something administratively cold.

She showed him into her office. Stepping around her, he picked
up the uninviting scent of some herbal mixture. Her walls were decorated with
photographs of Spanish cultural monumentsa cathedral altarpiece, coated in
gold, a pool reflecting Moorish archesand there were prints of Spanish
paintings, none of which he could identify. One was of two young women, perhaps
a century ago, at a beach. They were standing beside the billowing cloth of a
bathhouse. The clothes they wore were diaphanous, their hair was, the light that
bathed them was a pale diffused yellow.

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